Small Feet
by Frankie Maguire
Summary: A 22 year-old Maura goes back to college to turn things around, meeting a certain professor that will change her life along the way.
1. Chapter 1

**Small Feet**

by evenmoreso

Passion and hope is a sandwich on fire, unless it's a Subway, which in all cases, is a really good fattening neck rub after a long hard day.

Has your life ever been in such a blur that sometimes it's a surprise when you find yourself standing where you are now? I've been told a couple of times to take it easy, that I'm still too young to think about these things. People make it sound like the essence of life is a faucet that I can turn on and off. How can I stop questioning what's going on? I'm breathing and I'm alive. Things change back and forth. All of it is being carried by this huge uncontrollable force and they want me to stand here awkwardly and watch it pass me by. That won't do and maybe that's why I am the way I am-a slightly deranged woman obsessed with permanent bliss and all of its perks. I wonder if anyone has heard of such a thing. In my nineteen years of experience, all I've seen is passing fun. There are moments that were good enough to create joy, but not long enough to seize it so I'm not really certain if it's something that we're meant to have.

I don't remember much but I have so many scars from the past, making it hard for me to live. You might think of literal scars, self-harm, suicide attempts and even eating disorders because it fits perfectly for a dramatic nineteen year old. Fortunately, that's not the case. At least, not yet.

I'm well-off, eating three meals a day and sometimes more, if I'm really hungry. I have enough clothes and shoes that are considered fashionable. Though I really hope you aren't going judge me by having a BMW. I've been getting straight A's since middle school, I do think that I deserve it. You may not agree now, but you will later on. I have a strong feeling about this because my life is not a sob story. This is plainly me, sharing the things I do, see and feel.

My name is Maura. Just Maura. My parents couldn't think of a more pleasant and much longer name, probably because they were too busy paying their dues and making sure that they're giving me the life they never had. They are hard-working-career-obsessed- adults. Maura is short, easy to remember. Imagine the additional stress they have to go through, calling me because I did something wrong and me having a five-syllable name. There's only one problem though. Maura means great and I am not. I look normal, boring and simple, which bothers me more than it should.

But what bothers me most is college and how I'm practically starting back at one. It's hard for me to talk about it but I guess I should, because I want you to understand.

* * *

My parents separated when I was a sophomore and I couldn't go to my Biochemistry class that day because well, my life was falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it. They didn't get a divorce because it would just complicate things and my tuition was a bit expensive. Long story short, my mother left and my father decided to never speak to me again because of his twisted reasoning that I looked so much like my mother. I guess that's why he was always hard on me. My only selfish wish was for them to not see anyone else for a long while because when my mother did, I ran away and dropped out of class. One of the perks of being an only child is that your life stops as soon as your parents stop functioning. I know that I should be on my own and I should respect their decisions, but I wish somebody told me that before I decided to focus on studying and stop making friends.

They never really gave me much attention so it definitely hurts when they're giving it to someone else so yes, I was jealous of my mom's boyfriend and her boyfriend's children and I will be infuriated to find out that my dad is seeing a woman who's a lot less familiar version of my mom in the most random ways.

I used to be so proud because even though we were unhappy, we were together and somehow, that convinced me that we were one of the few normal families, living their lives. I was, at least, hoping that they would grow old together and take care of my children, if ever I'm going to have any. I'm like the rest—trying to deny the fact that I'm a product of neglect, exhaustion and incompetency. I dreamt of getting married once, but thanks to them, I have a perfectly skewed version of 'happy' endings and relationships, which resulted to me shutting myself out to every possibility and every opportunity to get hurt.

It worked, because now, I have eighteen units of stress waiting for me at Boston Cambridge University and I couldn't be more excited. I'm not thinking of anything else, at all. Just my degree, my apartment and my tortoise. At twenty two, things shouldn't be bad, right? I still have my old books and I've been reading them over the summer. I've been reading a lot because I don't want to be stagnant. Reading also kills my time, which feels so much better sitting in my soft couch while sipping a cup of warm jasmine tea. I am aware that I sound geeky and I'm not denying it. Besides, if you're not a geek in college, I think you're wasting either your parents' money or your time. I'm severely disgusted by college students who party all the time. I don't like seeing them walk, hearing them talk and laugh. People turn bitter when they are deprived of what they deserve. While it's comfortable to complain and hate them for various reasons, I'm choosing to not let them affect my life because soon enough, I will be a writer and I will write good. People will hear me and think about their choices in life. I will also design buildings and structures for two reasons: I'm an architect major and I heard the pay is really good. Those two reasons are masks, covering the truth of my fear of failing because writers don't make enough money unless they're lucky. The industry is all about luck and what people want. It's hypocritical to have those standards and yet expect for something extraordinary. It's like they want you to write about bagels because people are crazy about bagels. They understand bagels, but at the same time they don't want you to fall into the bagel-cream cheese kind of culture. They want an undercover bagel or a magic bagel that can talk or recite the constitution of the United States of America. I know I am making sense, if only you would just close your eyes.

I really need to turn things around this year. I assume Bass, my pet tortoise, agrees with me. He's looking at me. Bass is not really as interactive as most pets are but he lives longer and that's what I like about him.

My plan for survival is good food, music, wine, hot baths, books and ten hours of sleep. It's not advisable but it works for me. I should worry less because I'm not paying for anything. The world is not my oyster though. This sense of convenience is merely a compromise for what happened to me.

It helps to picture myself on graduation day or the day after where I have new things to do. You might hate me for saying this but I'm not worried about finding a job. As lousy as the economy is, my father has arranged everything ahead of me. He is a good friend of the Fairfields, which is a very prominent family here in Boston. The Fairfields own various companies. Surely, there is a spot for me in there, the same way that they've been forcing Garrett Fairfield into my life. He seems nice but we don't have the same ideals. I haven't been craving the shallowest of relationships either so it wasn't bound to happen. His family was making a big deal of it. My father was too. I've heard all sorts of things like how I would make a good daughter-in-law. I could be a Fairfield in another lifetime, but not this one.

* * *

The first week of college came in so fast that I found myself in the kitchen table, multi-tasking by trying to arrange a pile of homework while trying to munch on a celery stick. I like to eat whenever I'm doing something stressful. It's like practicing the dog-treat theory. For each question answered, I get a bite. It wasn't that hard, I just didn't make a habit of procrastinating. I like to get things done immediately so I'd have more time to do the things I want. Most of the subjects I have this semester are easy, except for this one subject that I signed up for but missed because something went wrong with the school's system and I wasn't really aware that I had that subject—Philosophy. I suppose I could get the syllabus and check my professor's schedule. I could even sit in so I wouldn't miss out. I don't know how I feel about _those _kind of talks and lectures in the morning. I honestly think philosophy is somewhat like psychology without the technicalities. I guess it's good for motivation and for straightening out perspectives but I really hope I won't have to argue and defend my opinions in class. I took three units of political science two years ago and got into a very heated argument with a girl named Susie Chang regarding the advantages and disadvantages of certain political parties. She is very smart and opinionated. She has almond eyes, high cheekbones and a nice tan. She is also a republican which made things worse. I didn't really pay much attention to American politics. I just wanted to know how the system works. That didn't stop her from justifying how right she was though. I lost my temper because I didn't like it when someone made me feel like I was stupid and I really hope I don't have to see her this semester. She's a science major anyway.

* * *

Philosophy by its very definition is the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality and existence. I have it every Tuesday at nine. It's not like Math or Biology, but I'm looking forward to it at room 402 in the Arts Building. I haven't been there much because it's a place for Literature and Theater majors. They literally stay there like an enthusiastic cult, swimming in Shakespeare and silly showtunes. The department of Architecture and Fine Arts is more of an indie song, bashing Alanis Morissette at three o'clock in the morning. We keep it to ourselves, unless you're an artist with a god complex. Those people have groups. They usually attend or create their own art shows after sneaking out to smoke pot and listen to Bob Marley and talk about how nudity is overrated. I'm the invisible one who observes in silence. I am pissed and focused at the same time, but really I'm just lonely.

The hallway is filled with so many people. It irks me a little but I've gotten used to it. Room 402, however, is empty. I roll up my sleeve to look at my favorite wrist watch. I'm fifteen minutes early. I should come in anyway because I have nothing better to do.

As usual, I sit at the front to have an advantage. I listen and think better in class that way. It gets a little awkward for a moment until a woman walks in and settles down one seat away from me. I gave her a brief indifferent smile out of modesty and looked down to check my syllabus. I don't pay much attention to the people in my class unless something in them is so obvious like neon green hair, tunnel earrings and racy tattoos. When that happens, I keep reminding myself that I'm in BCU and people don't just get in. It's comforting to not be surrounded by complete idiots all the time.

The woman smiles back and asks me if she's in the right class. I nod in return. She's getting busy with her own set of notes and books, which gives me a quick opportunity to look at her. She has brown eyes and olive skin, which I'm jealous of. I'm part Irish so it's normal to look fair next to a snowman. Her messy dark brown hair is tamed in a subtle ponytail which adds definition and a certain glow to her very much proportioned face. She looks young and slender even though she's wearing a thick white blouse and a gray blazer. She looks like a law student in style.

I pretend to read before I could embarrass myself from trying to make a small talk. As pretty as she is, the outside doesn't always reflect what's on the inside. I'm not trying to judge anyone though. I'm just cautious.

Five more minutes passed and the silence is killing me. I can feel her looking but I choose to ignore it. I'm a sincere person but most people find that hard to believe because I can't look them in the eye. If eyes are really the window to the soul, then my reasons are valid. I can't let them see me for who I really am. I don't like it when people try to figure me out. They can't and they won't unless I want them to.

Another three minutes irk me ever so painfully and then the students start to arrive. She tries to keep an eye on them one by one until the seats are occupied. One more minute of silence and I hear whispers at the back, wondering where our professor is since it's almost nine. Suddenly, the brunette beside me stands up and picks up her things, putting them on the desk. She starts writing something on the chalkboard and it doesn't take long for me to realize that the name she's writing is the same as the one printed on my syllabus: Jane Rizzoli.

"Finally, someone's looking for me." She turned to face the class and chuckled. She's standing tall and confident. "I'm Jane Rizzoli. I'm going to be your Philosophy teacher this semester," She says. I still don't believe what I'm seeing. She can't be a BCU professor. Sure, she looks older than me but she doesn't look that old and I guarantee that the rest of the class agrees with me.

"Before we go to class rules and expectations, I would like to address a couple of things. This class is not going to be easy, however, it is going to be worth it so if you want to pass this subject with flying colors, I suggest you stop ignoring the small things." She starts walking back and forth, probably familiarizing herself with strange faces. She glances at me for a second, as if she's containing a grin. I think she knows I'm surprised.

"Don't call me Professor Rizzoli, Ms. Rizzoli or worse, Ms. Rizz because it sounds ridiculous. I prefer Miss Jane. I'm a BCU alumna and I can assure you, I'm older than all of you. Should you doubt my credibility because of my appearance, feel free to go to the Dean's office to check my credentials or the library where you can find one of the few books I wrote. Questions? "

The whole class is laughing, except for me. I don't think she's joking at all. Either way, I'm stunned and intrigued. I've never met a professor, this young. My guess is that she's twenty nine, fresh from grad school. I made a mental note to go to the library today just to see what she's all about, though it's really not hard to see how smart she is.

Jane Rizzoli isn't a woman. She is a professor. Her words are precise and understandable. The lessons are oozing with different energies and a certain degree of wit and I can't tell if it's because of her or philosophy itself. Her beauty makes her twice as likable, aside from the obvious fact that she loves what she's doing. She knows what she's doing. I'm far beyond impressed that all I do is look at her and indulge myself with the way she talks. Her voice is deep, almost raspy but clear. It's appealing enough to put me to sleep but my newfound interest in this class keeps me awake.

She's not a professor who's slapping her master's degree in your face. She keeps in touch with knowledge and recognizes its nature to grow and change. This might be too much to say in one day, but that's how I feel. She hasn't even discussed much, just the basics of philosophy—definitions, opinions, versions and its benefits.

"If you stay with me in this class, I'm going to teach you how to teach yourselves to live. Not to dictate or alienate your views, but to enrich the things that you already know and help you to make more sense in this life." She says. And that promise just hits me. It's what I need. "Sounds like an infomercial right? But trust me, that's what philosophy is all about."

If I could define my day in a sentence, I'd say '_I am loving my Tuesdays__'_, thanks to her.


	2. Chapter 2

If you're a geek like me and you don't know what heaven feels like, then you have to check out the BCU library. Every penny spent on the miscellaneous fee is so worth it! I don't see how anyone would find this boring. It's like the same library in the Beauty and the Beast movie except it's not toasty warm and sunny bright inside. The walls are white and the shadow-stained bookshelves stand so high, it gives me a certain degree of anxiety that I might miss out on certain information that I could use for the rest of my life. I want to read everything all at once. I only came here for one thing though. I came to read about my Philosophy professor. It doesn't count as stalking because she gave me the idea, though I think I would do my research about her anyway because I'm curious.

Ms Jane's book is really not hard to find. As expected, it's in the Philosophy section, but what surprises me is that her book is far from traditional. In fact, it almost looks like the thinnest version of the first Harry Potter book. _PH152, R19 _it said. The cover is hardbound and has a picture of the pale blue sky. There's a small portrait of her at the back that looks like it's been taken in the late 80's where people's hair were infused with cans of hairspray and volumizing mousse. She's wearing a pink turtleneck sweater together with a forced smile that tells me she'd rather skip that part because pictures of authors are just one way to express self-gratification. Ms Jane is beautiful but the kind that doesn't make a big deal about it. From another woman's point of view, she's effortless. Natural.

'_Feel-osophy: A Guide for the Ill-hearted Monkey in All of Us, a book by Jane_ Rizzoli' the title says. It frustrates me because I don't quite understand what it means, but I guess that's the reason why I should read the book in the first place. Ill-hearted. I've never heard of such a thing but it sounds like a noun suited for me. I start flipping the pages, scanning the typography with my eyes. It takes very little time for me to be glued to it and I'm still finding the real reason why. The book tells so much about loneliness, being a terminal disease that helps people appreciate and strive for happiness, but it also clarifies that the absence of sadness doesn't guarantee bliss. Everyone is bound to feel lonely at some point. It is inevitable. As cruel as it sounds, I'm not offended. See, Philosophy isn't factual. There is no right or wrong. It's tricky and complicated like life. It's fine because the feeling doesn't sink in until I sleep alone at night. Right now, all I want to do is keep reading. It sounds like a self-help book but I could care less if it were. People who think reading such a thing is ridiculous and pitiful are nothing but cowards in denial. They are probably sick with pride because they're convinced that admitting your weaknesses is a shameful thing and moreover, finding the strength to seek help is terrible. Those kind of people make me angry. Why would someone choose to ridicule a person for being different when they're not hurting anyone? It brings me back to page thirty-six where ill-hearted is being defined perfectly into one word—me.

People would question the relevance between my resentments and me being a so-called 'ill-hearted monkey' and might figure out the cause and effect theory as an answer. If they do, I won't deny it—though some are still sick at heart even when they have everything. My situation doesn't speak for everybody. And apparently, ill-hearted is just a romantic and miserable way of saying that you're depressed, but Ms Jane made it clear that it's not the same as being clinically depressed or having some other mental illness that you can think of. It's not a dramatic way of attention-seeking either, which gives me relief because I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I were that kind of girl—not that I would condemn anyone who seeks attention because it is necessary. It just annoys me when people deny attention to get even more attention. It shows their desperation to be wooed—pushing someone away, antagonizing their motives and actions and bringing out more negativity just to satisfy themselves at the thought of another being wanting to please them badly. I can't imagine finding comfort at the thought of making it difficult for everyone because my life sucks unless it's their fault. Unfortunately, being ill-hearted is worse. It strikes your core and disables the essence of your being. It makes you dysfunctional and it scars your every thought about reality, hope and joy. It's too light to be a disease and too serious to be a joke or a state of mind. The cure? Several sessions of intensive peculiar therapy and mind-conditioning without the help of a shrink. That's the obnoxious part of the solution. You can never fully comprehend what you need until you acknowledge the things that are going on in your life. It's hard because we all have something that we want to forget and some of us refuse to face it in the fear of having it worse and experiencing it all over again. That's the part where I want to close the book and go home. Instead, I skip a few pages and jump straight to the author's information.

"About the author," I mouth the words as my index finger traces the line. There's nothing out of the ordinary except brilliance. Jane Clementine Rizzoli is born and raised in Boston, from an Italian family that settled in Massachusetts many years ago. I try to hold back a giggle. I didn't peg her for a 'Clementine'. I expected something a little more graceful and less cheesy. She has a minor in clinical psychology, a masters degree in Philosophy and is also a doctor of the subject—all achieved under the age of twenty-nine. Rizzoli published several books and articles, garnering a Pulitzer Prize for outstanding fiction, but chose to have a teaching profession at her alma mater after experiencing a kidnapping incident in 2009. She realized that real change starts with education and she would like to invest in the future by sharing her knowledge with the next generation of professionals and dreamers.

I am dumbfounded with this amount of information. My lips part slightly out of amusement. It's not a lot but I just didn't expect her to be that kind of person so now I'm compelled to put her on a pedestal. Most of my professors turn old and grumpy before achieving the things she did and maybe that's why I'm impressed. Ms Jane is far too young to have all this and that's what I want to be. Brilliant. Exceptional.

I figured that if I really want to turn things around, I have to stay focused at put the book right back where I found it. I think I have done enough research. I have too much homework to do anyway and I'm not looking forward to solving my problems in Biochemistry. My musing is interrupted by a vibration of the Blackberry inside my pocket. I forgot that I set my alarm at this time because I have a yoga class to attend to. I like yoga, it clears my thoughts. It also keeps me in shape so I can't complain.

I make my way back into the bookshelf to familiarize myself with the section when I see a woman lying on the floor with her face covered with Hamlet, split in half. I can't get close enough to the shelf without stepping on her so as much as I hate to mind someone else's business, I have to tell her to move. What is she doing here anyway? The library is not for sleeping. She could get caught.

The tightness of my pencil skirt prevents me from kneeling so I bend down as far as I could, tapping the lady on the shoulder before removing the book on her face. What a disgrace. Shakespeare would be insulted. _"__Miss, excuse me. You need to wake up. Sleeping here is against the rules." _I whisper, sighing at the woman's stubbornness. She wouldn't move.

My cheeks turn into a visible shade of red as soon as I realize that it's Ms Jane who is groaning in protest. She tries to sit up, looking disoriented. Her hair is a mess and she has several marks on her face. I look at her all wide-eyed, demanding an explanation why an outstanding teacher is snoozing around at this time.

"Oh jeez, I'm sorry. Are you my five o'clock?" She rubs her eyes and fixes her hair in a hurry. However, she is not embarrassed for getting caught. Not at all.

I shake my head, clearing my throat. Her voice is raspy and lower than usual. It gives me shivers for no apparent reason. "I just need to put this back." I wave the book in front of her quickly, hoping she doesn't notice that it's hers. "And I can't without stepping on you...so I had to." I look down at my feet, fidgeting like a little girl lost at the mall.

"Right, right. You're in my class, aren't you? Miss..." She snaps her fingers after running them through her dark brown locks—obviously trying to remember who I am. "Isles!" She says like she just won the first round of Jeopardy. "Miss Isles." She repeats my name and smiles, standing up. I didn't notice how tall she was until now when we're a few inches apart. She's not even wearing heels. Neither am I. "I'm supposed to tutor your classmate, Frost. The poor thing bailed on me. I was reading Shakespeare but it's so cold in here. I dozed off." She laughs at herself, letting the book fall on the floor before picking it up to clutch it against her chest. "Don't tell anyone though. I will deny it if you do." She pretends to glare at me and I can only grin like I haven't seen sunshine in days. Ms Jane is so nice and casual, it's almost like I'm talking to a friend I never had. I excuse myself to put the book back on the shelf but I can't seem to find a stool to step on, not even a ladder and it's making me nervous. She notices this and walks up to me to help. "This library is for giants. Here, let me..." She snatches the book from my hands without thinking. I want to run but my feet are glued to the floor. "Hey, this is my book!" She gives me that surprised but pleased look on her face. I bite my lip because apparently, she's not the only one getting caught. She scans the pages enthusiastically, staring at me 'til kingdom come. "I haven't seen this in years. Were you trying to check my credentials?" She jokes and asks another question. "What do you think?"

I feel dreadful. It's like I'm being interrogated and teased at the same time and I'm not used to it being done by an older woman—especially my teacher. I know it's just a harmless question and she's probably just making small talk but I haven't had casual conversations with someone in a long time and it's making me sweat like a pig despite the cool temperature of the room.

"I didn't finish it." I say truthfully. "I think it's interesting and unconventional." My voice is almost inaudible but I see Ms Jane nod in agreement. "Hm, I've heard worse." She smiles once again and decides to put her book back into place, the same way that she's putting me out of my misery. "Nicholas Sparks told me it was inaccurately absurd. Can't say that I was pleased. A Walk to Remember was one of my favorite movies. Ever seen that one?"

I shake my head again. I really don't know what she's talking about. I don't even know who Nicholas Sparks is.

"You should. It's cheesy but bearable. Anyway, I should get going. Don't wanna make this more awkward for you than it already is."

Ms Jane walks away. I don't want her to go. I was really enjoying the conversation. I don't know if I did something wrong. Did I look agitated? Maybe I was too quiet. Too formal? I want to talk to her. I don't care about what we talk about as long as she's here.

"Ms Jane!" I call out, running up to her. I wince at the sound of "Sssshhh!" in chorus, forgetting that I was in the library. She turns around and suddenly, the world is in slow motion and my eyes capture the way her hair sways and bounces.

"I'm sorry." I say, catching my breath, keeping up with her. "I don't feel awkward. It's just, I'm not used to have someone like you talking to me." _Or anyone at all_. I hope my words didn't come out wrong. I don't want to make it sound like I'm flirting because I'm not. Why would I even flirt with another woman? The thought has never occurred to me. "You know, teachers. They usually keep it to themselves." I reason out. She stops walking as soon as we leave the library.

"That didn't occur to me. But okay." Ms Jane answers with an indifferent shrug. I can't tell if she's offended or if she simply doesn't care. "Listen, I really have to go. I'm starving and I still have a lot of things to do. It's nice running into you though. I'll see you in class."

And so Ms Jane disappears without a trace except her face embedded in my thoughts. I hate myself for trying to make a conversation. Why can't I learn? Nobody wants to talk to me. Nobody wants to be my friend. Why should I bother?


End file.
